


Hot Wings

by Carrieosity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bikers, Canon Universe, Case Fic, Eating Challenges, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff and Humor, Food, M/M, Profound Bond Gift Exchange, hot wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 10:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15047084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrieosity/pseuds/Carrieosity
Summary: A hunter and an angel walk into a gay biker bar in search of an aswang. There was really no way to predict what would happen next.(Or: the time Castiel got into a hot wing contest, and Dean managed to surprise them both in his own way.)





	Hot Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This is part of the Profound Bond network’s Gift Exchange! I wrote this for arronaut. Our theme was just “food.” Thanks to profound-boning for beta work!
> 
> Okay, so I might have a running theme of making Cas and Dean into chili pepper lovers in my other stories, and this little fic might help explain why I do that. It’s my personal headcanon, and I can’t be swayed. Enjoy!

“This…is a gay bar.”

It wasn’t a question, not really. Rather, it was an expression of Dean’s mild incredulity at how he could have missed noticing something that was, at least in retrospect, rather obvious. From the outside of the building, the signs had been there, he could now process with the benefit of hindsight. Sure, the stylized motorcycle in neon lights flickering slightly on the brick exterior was nothing extraordinary—other than the intermittent puffs of multicolored smoke flashing from the neon tailpipe. (The red portion of the rainbow was burnt out, Dean rationalized, or he would have realized immediately.) The name of the bar, The Ring of Fire, hadn’t sounded nearly as ominous when he’d chalked it up as a Johnny Cash reference.

Castiel shrugged, not even a little bit fazed at the sight of the small crowd of large, leather-clad bikers grinding on each other, southern rock filling the bar at a deafening volume. “I’m fairly certain our _aswang_ has no particular preference in terms of sexual partners,” he said casually, almost conversationally. “After all, it itself can choose whether to appear as male or female. The fact that it is apparently currently assuming a male form is—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered, scanning the faces of the men around them. “And we’re sure this is the bar?”

“Apart from the fact that this is the only establishment patronized by motorcyclists—”

“Bikers,” Dean interrupted again, ignoring Cas’s rolled eyes and huff of irritation. “Call ‘em ‘bikers.’ We’re never gonna fit in if you don’t loosen up.”

Castiel shook his head dismissively. “I doubt the _aswang_ will care about vocabulary. As I was saying, it’s here.” Reaching a hand into the inner folds of his trench coat and covertly revealing a small flask, he nodded in satisfaction. The liquid inside was quietly effervescing, viscous bubbles popping on the surface. “The albularyos oil boils in the presence of the creature. We’re close.”

“But which one?” Dean asked. “It looks like a dude, apart from the bloodshot eyes, which…I dunno if you’re looking around, but that’s _everyone._ Including me and you. I was sort of hoping something would be a bit more obvious about the thing, since I doubt going through everybody here with a handful of hypodermics full of Dead Man’s Blood is going to get us far.”

“We’ll test them, I suppose; find the one who responds to our bait, and hopefully dispatch them later, in a more private setting,” Castiel suggested. “The bathroom, perhaps.”

“Still hanging up on part one of your plan, there,” Dean grumbled. It was a bit warm in the bar, from the crowd of bodies and the exertion of the men dancing. Jerking his head toward the counter, Dean led Castiel to a couple of stools, signaling to the bartender his desire for a drink. When the bartender jerked his thumb toward the whiskey shelf and raised an eyebrow in question, Dean glanced at Cas. “Couple shots of Jack?” he asked. “You gotta drink, or you’re gonna stand out like even more of a sore thumb.”

Cas shrugged indifferently, and Dean flashed four fingers and pantomimed a shot. When the bartender turned to grab the bottle, Dean braced his forearms on the counter and started tapping his fingers restlessly. “So how do we start testing all these guys without immediately throwing up a red flag and sending them running?”

“ _Aswangs_ are like vampires. They don’t like sunlight, garlic, certain herbs.” Castiel hadn’t stopped peering around the room, studying the occupants.

“None of which are going to be all that helpful right now, not without showing our cards too early.” The bartender slapped the shot glasses in front of them, and Dean nodded his thanks. He tipped a glass toward Cas, who frowned as he copied Dean’s movements with obvious deliberation. The whiskey burned pleasurably as it ran down Dean’s throat; Cas, as usual, swallowed it down with as little reaction as if he’d been drinking water. Dean watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, quickly shoving down the inner cravings that were stirred by the movement. That was for later, when the job had been finished. Cas tended to be very goal-oriented these days.

“What about that?” Castiel said, gesturing with his head as he lifted his second glass. Dean followed the gesture and saw a filthy paper menu taped to a nearby napkin holder. It listed a small variety of typical greasy bar food, including fries, cheese sticks, and hot wings. “They sell garlic wings.”

“So what, we ask who _hasn’t_ bought them? Buy a round of wings for the whole bar? Lots of folks don’t like garlic, not just monsters.”

Cas grimaced slightly. “Perhaps,” he said. “Though I would guess the garlic wings are more popular than the—” he squinted at the sign “—Screaming Sphincter Wings, whatever that is meant to imply.”  

Snorting a laugh, Dean grinned. “They’re a mistake, the kind that sounds real good to guys who’ve drunk too much and have something to prove. Personally, I go for pool sharking when I’m in that kind of mood, but I don’t even see a table in here.” There was a dart board on the wall, but no darts were in evidence. Some scattered dark splotches on the wall might have explained why. “You don’t eat them for the taste. You eat them to show off.”

“Hmmm.” Castiel looked around again, considering. “Pressure to conform, to fit in. Our creature will have been working hard to do that. Unlike the ordinary vampire, it doesn’t have a family group of other _aswangs._ Its tribe is human, a group of nomadic motorists.”

“ _Bikers,_ Cas.”

Ignoring Dean entirely, Castiel smiled, a somewhat predatory glint in his eyes. “I may have an idea that will work.”

* * *

“Jesus H. _Christ!”_ shouted the seated biker, pounding his fist against his thigh with each syllable. At least, Dean was pretty sure that was what he was trying to yell. The way he was drooling and gasping sort of obscured most of his consonants. His buddies groaned, though their disappointment was mild in the face of how entertained they were by the spectacle.

Across from the biker, Castiel smirked, wiping the corners of his mouth delicately with a bar napkin. The basket in front of him was starting to overflow with stripped chicken bones. A big, leather-vested guy sitting at his side pounded him on the back and hoisted his hand into the air in a sign of triumph; he’d been one of Cas’s first defeated opponents, and he’d readily declared himself Cas’s disciple and dedicated groupie from that point forward.

Dean leaned over the table and handed the newest loser a glass of milk, courtesy of a bartender who’d never gone through close to so many cartons in a single night before. The biker grabbed it and chugged. _Oh, well_ , Dean sighed internally. _That’s eleven down, plenty more to go._

It really was an ingenious plan. An _aswang_ hated garlic, but it was much harder to detect garlic _oil_ than it was the actual cloves. A slight coating of garlic oil around the rim of the glass wouldn’t be noticeable before it was actually ingested, particularly when the drinker was as desperate as these guys. The milk also helped disguise a lot of the flavor, so unless the drinker was really, _really_ sensitive, they shouldn’t have any visible reaction at all.

Garlic wouldn’t kill an _aswang,_ not any more than it would do much damage to a vamp. Dean was simply on the lookout for any funny faces or momentary looks of disgust. Even narrowing the field to a handful would be way better than any other alternative he could see.

The next guy was already being pushed into the chair by the enthusiastic crowd. As things turned out, Dean and Cas had only had to rely on individual bravado and drunkenness to get the impromptu contest started. Once the bar denizens had seen how quickly the nerdy little guy in the trenchcoat had taken down the first few challengers, they’d been quick to jump into the game, either boasting that they themselves were tougher than the others or else pressuring their friends to give it a go. The “Screaming Sphincter” wings were completely as advertised, meanwhile—or, at least, Dean thought he could safely assume so. That’d be a secondary problem for these guys, a parting gift to follow the more immediate agony they were suffering at present.

_“You sure about this?” Dean asked, eyeing the basket of wings the sadistically-grinning bartender had placed in front of them. The chicken was an unnatural shade of orange-red, glistening with an oily sheen. The steam rising from them made Dean feel like his nose hairs were frizzling._

_“Completely,” Castiel said with a confident smile. “With my grace restored, I can hardly taste most foods at all. For the most part, I’ve regretted that loss, but tonight it should serve us well.”_

_“Well, yeah, but Reapers ain’t like most foods. Big difference between strawberry jelly and the hottest peppers on the planet. And even if you can’t taste them, if you eat enough of them, they might give you some trouble later, right?”_

_“I can easily heal any damage the chemicals might do to my stomach lining,” Cas insisted. “And as for the flavor…” He paused, smile growing. “I’m interested to find out.”_

Now, as Castiel and his newest opponent each grabbed a wing and prepared to face off, Dean couldn’t help grinning at the pure delight on Cas’s face. Apparently, there was a _huge_ difference between strawberries and insanely hot chili peppers, and it was turning out to be an unexpectedly massive perk to this whole scheme. When Cas had taken his first bite, his eyes had lit up like it was Christmas morning. “I can…” he’d blurted, then stopped himself from completing the sentence. It hadn’t been necessary, though.

The new biker barely managed to finish his second wing before crying uncle. A taller dude in a fringed vest threw an arm around and him and kissed him—on the cheek, apparently not an idiot—as though he’d suffered through great torture. Passing over the milk glass (not a flinch, dammit), Dean wanted to roll his eyes, but he refrained; the last thing he wanted was for somebody to decide that _he_ needed to take a turn. Fuck that.

With that thought in his head, he startled perhaps a bit too violently when a heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder. Dean turned his head, then had to crane his neck higher than he’d anticipated. The biker beside him was freaking enormous. “Shit, man,” the biker growled, “who the hell are you guys, anyway?” From what Dean could tell through the thick beard the guy was sporting, he seemed to be smiling, which was a relief.

“Just passing through on our way west,” Dean answered as vaguely as he could. The guy’s cheeks were flushed enough that Dean doubted he’d remember anything they said, anyway. “Place looked fun, thought we’d check it out.”

“Your friend is a _machine,”_ the biker said, shaking his head in admiration. “Ain’t never seen anything like that in my life. He do this a lot? What the hell does he eat for breakfast, lit charcoal?” He laughed at his own joke, thumping Dean on the back and making him stumble forward.

Coughing to get the air back in his upper lungs, Dean shrugged weakly and just smirked. Of course, Cas _didn’t_ eat breakfast, and now Dean felt a prick of guilt. Cas’s joy at tasting food again made him wish he’d tried harder to find something strong enough to let him hang onto one of the few pleasures he’d found while stuck as a human. There were plenty of hot sauces potent enough; he could stock the bunker’s kitchen, experiment with putting them in all sorts of stuff.

The giant biker was watching Cas’s current battle with eyes narrowed in thought. “Devil in his eyes. I like it,” he said, slurring a bit. “Like to see him in leathers, maybe.” Turning his head to peer down at Dean, he winked. “Any chance you’d introduce us, give me an in?”

“Like hell,” Dean said immediately, without thinking. The moment the words popped from his mouth, he regretted not trying for something less confrontational, less likely to get him turned inside-out and dragged behind a Harley. The biker’s eyes widened in surprise. Before he could open his mouth or lift a fist, Dean plunged forward, taking the only possible escape route he could come up with. “That’s my _husband.”_

The noise in the bar was even louder than when they’d arrived, which was to say that it was well past “booming” and on its way to “deafening.” There was no way anyone more than a few feet away could have heard Dean…unless they were blessed with angelic hearing and already prone to paying closer attention to Dean than to almost anything else. Dean felt the weight of Castiel’s stare before he turned to look. Cas had dropped his wing, and his lips, parted around an “O,” shimmered from the oil as he stared in shock.

“Did I win?” said the incredibly drunk man sitting opposite Cas. He looked confused but hopeful at the sudden change in Cas’s demeanor. Dean shook his head a fraction, trying to convey something between an apology and a reminder with his eyes. Cas blinked, then blinked again. He reached for another wing and ate it as fast as he could, brow furrowed.

“Tough luck,” the huge biker sighed. “For me, anyway. You’re a damn lucky man. Sorry ‘bout that. No rings, though, so you can’t blame me for trying.” He groaned dramatically. “Guess my prince is in another castle,” he chuckled, then slapped Dean on the back again. This time Dean saw it coming and braced himself, so he didn’t go flying. The biker laughed and stumbled toward the door, muttering about needing a smoke.

Dean hardly registered him leaving, instead watching Castiel, his brain working hard. He and Cas…he liked what they had, didn’t he? It was fun, it was relaxed, it was completely unpressured and easy and didn’t _need_ to have a name in order to be…good. It was good. At least, he’d thought it was good, right up until he’d gotten smacked in the face with the thought that he was one “no pressure” away from some other dude swooping in, and maybe Cas was trading his trench for a leather jacket. Trading Dean in for somebody else who could maybe offer him more.

A roar erupted from the crowd again—another man defeated. Dean almost forgot to do the milk test, so caught up in his thoughts. Cas threw him another quick look, a bit concerned this time. _I am a damn lucky man, aren’t I?_ Dean suddenly thought. It wasn’t the first time, really, but this time it came with a moment of clarity, and he knew. Maybe they weren’t going skipping off in search of a chapel tomorrow, but…he knew. And that knowledge warmed him and made him blush nearly as red as the guy staggering away from the table with his eyes streaming tears.

Reaching over the table, he gripped Cas’s hand for just a second, where it rested on the wood. He let his eyes say what he’d say with words later that night. Cas seemed to get the picture, and his gummy grin was wider than Dean thought he’d ever seen it.

* * *

 

“Almost feel bad taking your money,” the bartender said at the end of the night, when Dean was paying for the chicken wings Cas had consumed. “I sold more wings tonight than I have all year, thanks to you guys. That was pure fun.”

“Yeah, well, we enjoyed ourselves, too,” Dean said. He wasn’t feeling quite as elated anymore as he’d been earlier. Despite all their efforts, not only had none of the wing challenge participants reacted to the garlic oil, but the albularyos oil had apparently stopped boiling while Cas had been distracted. The _aswang_ had slipped away without noticing. “Seems like almost everybody in here took a shot at it, didn’t they?”

“Just about,” the bartender agreed. “Only one I saw who didn’t was Tiny. Would have liked to see that.”

“Hmmm? Who was Tiny?” Dean asked, glancing around the nearly empty room. If there was only one biker who hadn’t tried, then…

“Aw, you met Tiny. Big guy—the name’s a joke. You were talking to him a little bit, I saw. Looks like he wants to burn down your village and steal your cows? Wouldn’t actually hurt a fly though, is the funny thing. Think I heard once that he’s one of them vegetarians. Explains why he wouldn’t go for the wings, I guess.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean had a sinking feeling in his stomach. The last time Cas had checked the albularyos oil had been just before Tiny had left to smoke and hadn’t returned. “Must be hard to be a vegetarian in this town. Mostly steakhouses and burger joints, from what I saw.”

The bartender shrugged. “Tiny ain’t local. He and his group pass through every couple of months or so, but I don’t even know where they call home. They’re, whatcha call it, like modern nomads, like you see on the learning channels.”

“I think I heard that comparison made once before,” a gravelly voice said from behind Dean. The laughter in it was unmistakable.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, looking back at Cas. He looked completely unbothered by the loss of their prey. Apparently, capsaicin endorphins could affect even an angel, given enough consumption. “Well, guess we’re hitting the road early. Head back to the hotel?”

Castiel beamed contentedly. “Ready whenever you are.” Dean didn’t hesitate to reach for his hand, grinning right back.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr! I do like doing these smaller stories and welcome suggestions.


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